


Blue Devil

by Ahmerst



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Bad-end aftermath, M/M, Multi, mentions of drug use, nonconcensual groping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahmerst/pseuds/Ahmerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set after the bad end of the True Route.)</p><p>After being asleep for too long, Sly is woken to a situation he never asked to be in. Whatever, he'll take what he can get.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://aqueoushumor.tumblr.com/">Aqueoushumor.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Devil

When Sly wakes, it's not with the startling clarity of rousing from a nightmare, even if that seems to have been his life ever since… forever. Instead it’s slow and hazy, a drowsy pull from blackness into a fuzzy world he tries to blink into sharpness.

He's slept so, so long.

There have been moments of wakefulness, but they never lasted. They were short snatches, like minutes of awareness during fitful sleep. And then he'd be sinking down again; he never knew for how long.

But now the de facto commander of this meat bag they shared seemed to have called it a day. Leave it for him to pick and choose. Always wanted to be behind the wheel when things were sunny, then run for it the second it turned stormy.

Fine. Just fine.

He looks at his arm outstretched before him, fingers splayed. They're pale and thin. No, not thin.

Bony.

He traces the veins beneath the surface with his eyes. Sure, last time he had a good hold on this body he ran it ragged, but not this bad. Never this bad. He turns his hand this way and that, stares at the jut of his wristbones and the harsh outline of tendons that branch to his knuckles. Bruises bloom and drip like watercolors across his skin.

So it seemed shit had really hit the fan. No wonder the kid was so committed to kicking Sly to the front lines. Sly took in a slow drag of breath that rattled through him as he began to take in the situation, his hand falling limply to his side.

He was on his back, that much he could figure out. As his attentions drifted from his own body to his surroundings, he knew he wasn’t in Kansas anymore. He realizes for the first time that he’s in a bed, all heavy dark covers and downy pillows. Heavy drapes hang from overhead, and a single bright lamp is all there is to illuminate the rest of the room.

It’s pretty useless, considering how much of it is black. The walls, the ceiling, the curtains. As Sly lifts his head, muscles weak and straining, he finds the floor checkered with white and, of course, black.

He makes a note not to take interior decorating advice from whoever inhabits the room.

When he drops his head back down to the pillow a low, hushed noise meets his ears, he strains to understand it. It’s not footsteps, no. But it’s moving, and closer to him. It’s near the floor, a sound pulled along in smooth movements. He lets it settle into his ears, mind struggling to pinpoint what makes it familiar.

As the mattress dips under the new addition of weight, Sly’s gaze flickers to the end of the bed. Whatever it is, it’s sleek and shiny and as black as the rest of the room. He meets its eyes, marble blue and glossy.

Oh. It was this asshole.

“‘Sup, Hersha,” Sly says. His voice comes out a rasp, and he suspects he hasn’t spoken in a long time.

The snake slithers closer in response, forked tongue flicking from its mouth. It moves in a single fluid motion that betrays how much it weighs, something Sly finds out quickly as Hersha decides the choicest spot to rest in the room is on his chest. It pushes the breath from his lungs as it settles there. Each time Sly draws in air, it’s weak and hampered by the weight of the snake on him.

“Don’t be such a dickwad,” Sly snaps, raising his hand to push it off.

He feels the contraction of gears and metal as the snake rears just out of immediate reach, sees the lining of its mouth exposed and fangs exposed as it prepares to strike. 

“Be my guest,” Sly goads, waving his hand. “Bite me, bite the fuck out of me. You think I care? I give so little of a shit I may as well be constipated.”

Hersha’s head waves back and forth in time with Sly’s hand, as though to gauge when to strike. But as the seconds pass and Sly finds gravity stronger than his strength, hand dropping back down, the snake’s head does the same.

It’s not fun if Sly’s not scared. He gets how Hersha works, he gets how his owner works. Same for the lion and the tryhard wannabe he answers to. Fear is what they thrive off of, seeing that cold dazed look in someone’s eyes as they’re about to be beat, the sound of screams caught in throats and the beading of panicked sweat on bruising skin. He’s never given them that fear.

Sly’s always been too angry to be afraid.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum around here somewhere, then?” Sly asks. 

Hersha doesn’t answer, not that Sly expects it to. The snake instead starts a languid retreat, withdrawing from the bed and making its way to the floor, blacking out white tiles in flickers as it moves. Sly watches it go, feels his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when he sees what’s waiting in the doorframe. 

“Cool,” Sly drawls. It’s asshole number two. Asshole 2.0. Bigger, better, assholier. 

The second Hersha’s slithered through the paws of the lion before him, Welter pads into the room, nails curling and clicking against the floor as he approaches. The bed doesn’t sink so much as it bows when he pounces on it, Sly’s body giving a momentary bounce as the mattress pushes against him.

“Yo, fluffy,” Sly says, staring hard into the lion’s eyes. They’re so blue it’s uncomfortable, like the vibrant sky of an already-hot summer morning. They could nearly be beautiful if they didn’t make Sly think of a cross-eyed Siamese. 

Welter makes a noise like a chuff, taking a few strides closer until he’s filling most of Sly’s vision, large and dark and all encompassing. He leans in, and the hot puff of his breath hits Sly’s skin. It smells like exhaust and something almost organic. He reaches out one huge paw, claws extending as he goes to swipe at Sly.

Sly knocks the paw away like a mother slapping their child’s hand before it touches flame. He is not in the mood for these shenanigans, with snake and lion alike. 

“Get off my ass before I kick yours,” Sly says, leveling Welter with a hard look. 

The lion meets his gaze, holds it for a few seconds too long before it glances away

“That’s what I thought.”

Sly breathes soft through pursed lips before taking his body into account. He starts with a lazy stretch, all quiet groans and hurting muscles. His toes and fingers curl, back arching slowly from the mattress. Pain announces itself in blips on his radar, sore bruised spots and healing injuries. His entire being is one giant ache, cold and hollow as he moves.

Beside him, Welter drops down, paws folding beneath itself.

“Nowhere better to be?” Sly asks. He rolls onto his side and oh- yeah. Yeah, that hurts like a bitch. Something is wrong and jagged within himself, a piercing pain that keeps him from taking a deep breath. He hisses softly and moves slowly.

Welter lets out a purring sort of rumble as Sly faces him. Sly lifts a hand to place on the lion, fingers sinking into faux fur. It’s dark and soft as he cards through it, tickles against his nose when he nuzzles against it. There’s a light and airy sweetness to it, like sugar and spice. 

He doesn’t particularly want to touch Welter, but it’s hard to stop once he’s started. Touch, sensation, it’s been an abstract concept to him most of his life. Everything is electric now, fresh and inviting. He’s always wanted too much, and he’s always given into that want. Even if it means cuddling up to a stupid allmate with a brain the size of a pea, and all the personality of one.

Sly’s legs feel numb and far away as he tries to untangle himself from the blankets that have woven around him. The air of the room is cool against his exposed skin as he manages to weakly kick them away. He looks down to see more hard angles and skin stretched too tight over nothingness, bruises spattered along his shins and up his thighs. There’s a dry patch on his pale stomach, milky white and not at all hard to identify.

He’d be put off if he wasn’t so worn.

With a low groan he hikes a leg over Welter, arm draping across the lion’s shoulder blades. It’s not as comfortable as he imaged, all gears and metal joints like bonespurs beneath its fur. But he’s already committed, and he can’t find the energy to pull himself away. He lazes instead, eyes closing as his thoughts drift.

For all he’s found out, he still doesn’t know much. Sure, Virus and Trip’s allmates are around, but who’s to say where they are? Hell, Sly doesn’t even know where he is. Not that that’s a new experience for him. He always was fond of the sick sort of excitement that came with waking up in a bed or on a couch that didn’t belong to him.

Footsteps bring him back from his thoughts just as they start to drift sleepily. He opens his eyes to give a cursory glance when the noise stops at the door, takes in the figure that stands there, one hand on his hip, the other loosely adjusting his tie.

Virus.

“How many times do I have to say it?” he asks as he moves towards them. “No pets on the bed. Well, maybe one, but not you.”

It takes Sly a moment to realize he’s not the one being spoken to, his expression turning sullen at not having been acknowledged. 

“Why don’t you go cause trouble for Trip, instead of me?” Virus asks as he nears the side of the bed. He reaches out, deftly tweaks Welter’s ear in admonishment.

Welter makes a low noise, like he’s only sorry because he’s been caught, and rises. Sly’s limbs fall away and he makes no move to cover himself in front of Virus. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. A chill runs over his bare skin as Welter leaves, Virus sitting in the warm spot left behind.

He reaches out with one hand, rests his palm on the top of Sly’s head before his fingers are working their way through his hair, the unpleasant buzz that thrums through Sly par for the course. Virus’ other hand comes up to cup Sly’s cheek. He turns his head as though to lean into the touch, affectionate as a cat. At the last second he parts his lips, lets his teeth sink into the thin webbing between Virus’ thumb and index finger. It’s not a hard bite, but he holds it, pressure firm.

He locks eyes with Virus, and it’s like looking into a cold snap.

When Virus’s grip on his hair tightens, Sly’s teeth return the favor. Saliva seeps from the corners of his mouth the longer he holds the position, the skin in his mouth tantalizingly thin, easy to break if only he’d sink in the slightest bit more.

 

Virus gives a hard pull with the hand wrapped in Sly’s hair, jerking his head to the side. The pain is blue fire flames that lick through his nerves, searing white into the back of his eyes. His jaw locks down bulldog-strong, refuses to let go even as droplets of iron seep onto his tastebuds.

He waits for recognition to surface in Virus’s eyes, but nothing gives. They stay bright and blank as Sly’s always known them, pretty and without depth or thought behind the immediate here and now of the moment. He’s so pretty, and so, so dumb at times. For his airs of being the brain to Trip’s brawn, the gap between them was sometimes negligible

“Looks like we have ourselves a high noon stand off,” comes the voice that breaks their staring contest.

It’s Trip, and neither of them acknowledge him with their gaze. 

“He does have quite a bit more fire than usual. I’m nearly impressed, I must admit,” Virus says.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to snuff out,” Trip says, voice closer now. He comes to stand beside the bed, hands fitting into his front pockets as he inspect Sly.

He gets it. He gets it, and his entire look lights up. He stands up straighter, brows drawn in surprise, white teeth flashing in that open, childish grin he’s never grown out of.

“Aoba,” he breathes, soft and full of reverence.

Sly spits out the hand in his mouth.

“Sly,” he snarls back.

Aoba is not him, and he is not Aoba. He’s long given up on the idea that they could ever coexist as a single amalgamation. Cast aside hard and fast, kept under wraps like some sort of shame, his interest in acceptance couldn’t be any more last season.

The hand wound into his roots immediately unravels, and he rolls his head while his shoulders crack, the relief stark and brilliant as the pain fades. 

“Nice to know someone still remembers me,” Sly says, shaking out his hair. The action is poorly planned, the rushing of blood sending his head spinning top-fast. The lights he sees are dazzling and sweet, and he shuts his eyes until they fade. When he opens them, white still halos the edges of his vision.

“Of course I still remember you, it’s simply been some time,” Virus says. He sounds like a suck up, and Sly wrinkles his nose. What a kiss-ass.

"And this is it, you two are just gonna look at me all starry-eyed? No banners or balloons?" Sly says as he sits up. His muscles shake from the exertion, and the hair on his arms stands on end when something slick trickles slow down his inner thigh.

“You know you only need tell us what you want,” Virus says.

He reaches forward with one hand, takes Sly’s in his before he’s covering it with the other. His fingers are slender and soft, warmer than Sly expects. His thumb moves over the lines of Sly’s tendons that stick out from his sallow skin. There’s a sick sort of acidic taste in the back of Sly’s throat at that, and he’s not entirely sure why. He wants it to stop.

Painkillers is the first want that comes to mind, but it doesn't so much as form on his lips. It's not that he thinks they won't provide. He's sure they can, and the solid stuff, the kind of thing that can have him existing a short distance away from his body in seconds flat, but he's not about to ask for that.

He'd be a fool to let a drop of blood fall in the water now, to display a sign of weakness so blatantly.

"I'm hungry," Sly eventually says. Not because he is, but because he knows he should be.

"I'm sure Trip wouldn't mind fetching you some cake," Virus says.

"I said I was hungry, not that I wanted type two diabetes."

Virus smiles wide, head slightly cocked as though he's been charmed by the wit of a child. He squeezes Sly's hand once before he lets go and stands.

"I suppose it can't be helped, I'll have to be the one to feed you," he says.

Sly grunts in agreement as he watches him leave, lets his hands come to rest on the flat of his exposed stomach.

"Don't think you can stand around being useless," Sly tells Trip. "You could at least clean up some of the mess you've made."

When Trip eyes him curiously, Sly gestures to himself. Trip lets out a puff of a laugh, rubs the back of his neck in a wordless sort of apology, like he doesn't know his own strength.

What a load of shit.

"Of course, Sly," Trip says, and his tongue runs over his lips like he's tasting the name.

Trip retreats from sight, the sound of running water soon coming from another room. Sly sits and listens, hasn't the energy to do anything but.

When Trip returns, it's with a rag and a little tin box. It's dusty and dented, the first aid symbol on it faded to a flat red. The hinge catches when Trip goes to open it, and Sly doesn't have the energy to be surprised when it's filled with mothballs and nothing else.

"Guess I should have replaced this back when Virus told me to," Trip muses. His expression says that was a long time ago.

"You don't say," Sly sighs, low and irritated. These chucklefucks are never going to get it together.

Sly lets his gaze unfocus, going distant as the mattress dips and Trip sits next to him. He blinks once when the rag comes into contact with the skin of his collarbones. It's hot, borderline scalding, dragged along hard like Welter's sandpaper tongue.

Trip doesn't clean Sly so much as he pushes dried blood around, presses on sore spots and raw patches. He works his way down Sly's front, moving over the ragged dips of ribs and the concave surface of his stomach. When he tosses the rag aside, replaces it instead with fingers that trail too-light over Sly's skin, Sly's attention snaps back to the present.

Trip has touched him before, that's nothing new. What's new is the hot and sudden flare of anxiety that sticks itself in his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but it's thick and unmoving.

This should be fine. He's used to this, but his body is deciding otherwise, the physical response deeply conditioned. He shifts restlessly as Trip leans in, lips pressing at the corner of his lips in a mockery of something chaste.

The muscles of his thighs tense weakly and his heart gives a sickly squeeze when Trip’s fingers brush along his abdomen, drift lower until they’re wrapping around his dick. Trip’s hand is heated and rough as it takes him, palm calloused as it presses close to his skin. Sly’s knees snap weakly together, and he turns his head away when the lips press again to his skin.

Virus is there, eyes lit and a silver tray in his hands.

“I should have known I couldn’t trust you two together for more than a minute,” he says, setting a small tray on the bedside table. 

He sits at Sly’s other side in an instant, leans in to dot a mirror of the kiss Trip gave him. The bile is back in Sly’s throat, and the lump that’s lodged in it is the only thing keeping it back. He’s burning and cold at once, breath catching as Trip gives a lazy jerk of his hand. There’s a wretched, curdling warmth bubbling in his stomach, and he can’t think around it. 

It’s when the bile reaches his tongue that he finds the energy to push at them, thin fingers and clammy palms splaying across their shirts.

“Knock it off,” Sly says in a breathy huff, the tail end of his words stuttering. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m hungry? I don’t want to fuck around right now.”

“And if we still want to?” Virus asks, brows raising in interest.

There’s a test in his question, a gentle prodding to see what weaknesses can be exposed of Sly.

"Then I'll leave," he says coolly.

It's a bluff. He's not sure he could leave, he's never tried. Aoba's been the one to call those shots since day one, the dumb brat. But it’s worth throwing it out there, putting up fake walls to make them think he’s as strong as he was before.

It works, and their hands leave him. He grabs for the heavy duvet twisted up on the bed and covers himself to the waist with it, doesn’t fuss when they smooth it down his legs. Virus takes the tray up from the bedside table to settle it in Sly’s lap before he and Trip are taking turns plucking bite-sized bits of fruit and handfuls of nuts to feed to Sly.

Sly eats easily from their hands like a kept and pampered pet. He lets his lips brush their palms, tongue flicking over sprinkles of salt left stuck to their skin. Each bite is a sort of sensory overload to his palate after foregoing food for so long, and he finds his appetite stoked and his want growing, licks his lips and eyes the platter with disdain once it’s barren.

At least it proved a good distraction long enough for the electric anxiety in his nerves to calm, his thoughts more lucid and strung together. The question that’s been cobbling itself slowly together in his mind finds its way into words at last as his lap is cleared.

“What exactly were you two up to?” he asks, gesturing to himself. He’s seen their work enough times to know they’re responsible for the sorry state of his body.

There’s a pause in the air then, a quiet tension as gears turn and cogs click, an explanation formed. 

"We were under the impression that perhaps you would eventually make an appearance again, given the right circumstances,” Virus says, words delicate and enunciated.

Sly clicks his tongue with a hiss, the corner of his lip curving up. It's not a smile, not quite a sneer.

“What a bunch of fucking crackerjacks. You’re lucky it actually worked, and you’re lucky I might actually stick around.”

Virus’ lips curl up in that soft, restrained sort of smile he always sports, and Trip looks at Sly happily. No, happy is too simple a word. There’s a touch of mania there, an overeagerness in comparison to the reserved expression on Virus’ face. Looking at them both hits a chord within Sly’s heart, pulls back memories of the days they ran together and did nothing but get into trouble.

He misses it. He’s missed this. 

For all their shitty morals and backhanded tactics, these two have been the ones to accept him for him. Not a part of someone else, but a stand alone personality before he even knew that's what he wanted to be. He's never been able to figure out what he is to them, but it's been beneficial, and that's what's important. That's what's kept him alive, if only vaguely so.

These are the two that have pried and pleaded, pulled him open when he was at his most closed off, and if they still want him, well, fine. 

At least someone does.


End file.
